I felt my mother sitting down beside me. “Guess what?”
“How many guesses do I get?” And I looked at her, and she looked, she looked… “Mom, did something bad happen?”
“No, nothing bad. Something really good just happened to your mother.”
“What’s that?”
Her lips trembled, and tears fell down her face. “I’ve been named teacher of the year.”
I couldn’t help myself. I let out the loudest “Ajúaaaaaa” ever. I hugged and hugged her. “Ahhh, Mom, I’m proud of you.”
She couldn’t stop smiling. “But you know what your dad would have said.”
“Yeah, I think I do. He would have said, ‘It’s about damned time.’ ”
“That’s exactly what he would have said.”
“Well, I just said it for him.” I felt so happy I wanted to do something crazy, so I ran out into the empty street and yelled, “My mother is teacher of the year. Yes, sir, Liliana Mendoza, teacher of the year!”
“Ari, the neighbors are going to think you’re crazy.”
“I am crazy, Mom. I’m crazy about you.”
Some of the neighbors did come out. “It’s okay,” I said. “I’m not crazy. I’m celebrating. My mom’s been named teacher of the year.”
Our next-door neighbor Mrs. Rodriguez, who was a super-nice old lady, just shook her head and smiled. “Oh, that’s wonderful. And you’ve worked so hard, Liliana. Just wonderful.” And the neighbors who had come out to see what the commotion was all about came over and said incredibly kind things like “We are so proud of you.” And my mother, she looked as radiant as the setting sun.
After the neighbors left, my mother and I just sat there on the front steps. I realized we were both crying. “God, I wish your father was here.”
“Me too, Mom. I miss him more than anything.”
You know, I don’t think I’d ever felt as close to my mother as I felt in that moment. It’s funny how so many feelings can run through you all at the same time.
* * *
Friday morning, it felt like I was some kind of hero—and I hadn’t done a damn thing. My mother’s picture was on the front page of the El Paso Times. They quoted one of her former students, a young lawyer who’d graduated from Harvard Law School. “Throughout my college years and throughout law school, I often thought about her. She was the best teacher I ever had.”
Mr. Blocker was all smiles. “Tell your mother she’s my role model.”
All my teachers said congratulations, as if I had had something to do with my mom’s award.
After school, we were walking toward my truck in the parking lot. Susie and Gina and Cassandra kept looking at me. “You’re so quiet, Ari.”
I kept breathing. It was as if I couldn’t catch my breath. I just wanted to reach my truck. I had to reach my truck. And then I saw it a few feet away.
“Ari, are you okay?” I could hear Cassandra’s voice. I leaned on my truck like I was going to do a push-up and looked up the sky. “It’s so blue,” I whispered.
“Ari?”
“Susie, did anyone ever tell you that you have the kind of voice that could heal the world?”
“Aw, Ari.”
“I miss my dad. He’s never coming back. I know that. I keep thinking he’ll walk through the door and tell my mom how proud he is. I’m happy for Mom. She’s worked so hard. And I’m sad. There are days when I don’t want to feel anything. I know there are seasons for everything. But why does every season have to hurt? The Bible doesn’t tell you just how much each season costs you. The Bible doesn’t tell you what you have to pay when it’s time to refrain from embracing.”
I leaned into Cassandra’s shoulder and wept.
I heard her voice whispering, “ ‘Those who sow in tears shall reap rejoicing.’ ”
Twenty-Six
DANTE CAME OVER AFTER SCHOOL, carrying a vase with two dozen yellow roses. He handed the vase to my mother. “The Quintana family is very proud. This is from all of us—Mom, Dad, Sophocles, and me. But mostly from me.”
“Is it your goal in life to make everybody smile?”
He nodded. “Mrs. Mendoza, it’s better than working for a living.”
We were standing close together and she said, “Stay right there.” She came back into the kitchen with a camera. She took a few pictures. “Perfect,” she said.
* * *
Dante and I were lying on sleeping bags that we’d laid out on the floor of my bedroom. Legs was right beside us. It seemed that there weren’t any words living inside me. I was holding Dante, and then he kissed me and said, “I wish things could be different for us.”
“Me too.”
“Do you think we’ll live together someday?”
“Isn’t it pretty to think so?”
“That’s the last line of The Sun Also Rises—and it’s meant ironically. It’s a tragic line.”
“I thought you said you never finished it.”
“Well, I thought since you were reading it, I might as well get all the way through it too.”
“I’m not Jake and you’re not Lady Brett—so maybe we have a shot.”
“Isn’t it pretty to think so?” he said.
And we laughed softly in the dark.
There was the sound of thunder. And then the rain started to fall. First softly—then it was a full rain beating down on the roof.
“C’mon,” I said. I pulled him up. “We’re going outside.”
“Outside?”
“I want to kiss you in the rain.”
We ran out in front of the house in our underwear. The rain was freezing, and we were both shivering. But when I kissed him, he stopped shivering and I stopped shivering. “You beautiful, crazy boy,” Dante whispered as I held him. I could have stood there forever. Kissing him in the rain.
Twenty-Seven
THERE WAS A LOT OF commotion around my mother’s teacher-of-the-year award. The Catholic Daughters arranged for a street party in front of our house—complete with mariachis. Our house was flooded with flowers. My mother had a lot of admirers. Some of the flowers wound up in my room. I hated flowers.
And I even got to meet the lady with the pink Cadillac, who came over to congratulate my mother and gifted her with Mary Kay products. She was a trip. She loved Dante. “If I were forty years younger, I’d whisk you away and take you to Las Vegas.”
Dante and I just looked at each other.
The school district had an award ceremony where my mother was given a really nice plaque and a nice big fat check. My mother said it was very generous of the school district. I told her, “Dad would have said it wasn’t nearly enough after all the work you’ve put in.”
My mom just smiled. “Is that how you’re going to roll, Ari? Always reminding me what your father would have said?”
“I guess so, Mom. It’s a tough job—but somebody’s got to do it.”